


Between the Lines

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom draws for him now, leaving sketches of faces and landscapes or the occasional nude form in his bags, in place of the bookmarks in his novels, in his clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Lines

Sean is a child of the movie industry. He's good at writing and talking to crowds and delivering lines. It seems, though, that this process of spewing talent wholesale is not a two way street. And yet it's very rare for him to follow up on the returned feelings-- _do you actually appreciate this_? He says he knows and he is humble because he should be and his cheeks are pink when he says it, but he hasn't bothered to research it. He assumes. 

At the end of the day, he is tired and fat and the toilet flushes the wrong way and Ali has a cold and Elijah had been an absolute bastard that morning. And yet, surrounded by the vague and indifferent mist of Rivendell, one cannot deny the grandeur of it all. He wonders, though, how amazing a shoot has to be before the minor panic attacks that choke him in the middle of scenes stop.   


*

  


Dom draws naughty cartoon trees all over his script rewrites and later tears the sheets up, separating paraphrased Tolkien from Ent pornography. The bits with the trees end up in Sean's pockets, to be found days later. They leave him gasping for air, overcome with laughter, because every week Dom's cartoons become more elaborate and creative. The two of them never discuss the ritual. Sean finds it oddly comforting. 

"What's that?" Elijah asks one day, faintly blackened fingertips brushing a paper-clip-bound stack of drawings. 

"Nothing," Sean replies, curling the paper deep into his hobbit trousers. 

He doesn't feel like sharing. This is his. This is private comfort. 

Though the fates don't seem to want it to stay that way. Weeks later, Ngila delays him outside her office in Wellington and waggles paper scraps at him. 

"Perhaps Mr. Monaghan might have better uses for his time other than drawing you charming love notes? Say, coming to that re-fitting for his Rohan overcoat as we scheduled?" 

"He didn't show?" Sean asks, concern stirring behind his Adam's apple. If Dom has been shirking appointments, something might be off. He decides to give Billy a call about it.   


*

  


Transition excites him, especially when it comes with the leeway to care intensely about other people. He cares for himself, or tries to, but the caring turned inward always feels more like punishment than love. It's as if it needs to be that way for it to work. He can't even coddle himself. But other people--now that's a different story. He likes keeping track of Dom's moods, likes taking care of Elijah, and likes listening to Billy's careful, straightforward advice. 

Dom draws for him now, leaving sketches of faces and landscapes or the occasional nude form in his bags, in place of the bookmarks in his novels, in his clothes. Sean soaks this up. Doesn't know why it feels like appreciation or approval, but the pictures come to mean a great deal to him. It amazes him that he has never brought it up, that he and Dom have never spoken of anything very serious since filming started, for that matter. 

He doesn't realize that this daily gift giving has been stemming the greater part of his negativity until Dom and Billy go off to film Treebeard scenes and he and Elijah are introduced to their future life partner, The Rocks. One week into filming at the new location Sean's chests feels like it's full of glass. He worries about Dom. Wonders if Billy is keeping him on schedule and up to snuff. He calls them and talks to them both, but it's not the same, it's not the way it feels when he slips his fingers around his script and a wedge of paper falls to the grass. 

He is being selfish. He works on that.   


*

  


The Friday after South Island first unit filming shifts back to normal, the four hobbits gather whatever cast and crew they can and go out for dinner and drinks. Being together, surrounded by the pleasant hum of Kiwi accents and good food, Sean is momentarily content. 

Dom looks healthy and animated three seats down and across the table, hair spiked and wrists properly cuffed. That they're all here and smiling and on schedule is also a comfort to Sean. Elijah comes back from the bathroom and squeezes back into his chair next to Sean's. He doesn't go still until their elbows have touched. 

Spearing an herb-encrusted shrimp, Sean fiddles with his napkin in one hand, unfolding it across his lap. He chews, savoring the flavor, and doesn't notice the odd swatch of texture under his thumb until he's swallowed. It's a square of paper stuck in a wrinkle on the right side of the napkin. He turns it over. Scrawled across the back in tacky brown that looks suspiciously like eyeliner is a cartoon scribble of one skinny tree smacking a slightly rounder tree with a kiss on his bark cheek. Lines dart out from the drawing, implying motion. He laughs and blood floods his cheeks. 

Naturally, Dom's place at the table is the first direction he glances in. But the space is vacant. Billy is talking to Viggo in Dom's absence. Folding his napkin and patting the back of Elijah's neck, Sean pushes away from the table and crosses the restaurant to find the men's room. 

Dom is fiddling with his pants and a paper towel in front of one of the sinks. He utters a curse and switches taps, scrubbing at the cloth. 

"Hey," Sean says, undoing his fly and arranging himself in front of one of the urinals. 

"Oh, hey," Dom shoots back, giving him a glance. "Fucking oil. Should've listened to Billy and ordered something with less of a tendency to splatter." 

Finished, Sean tucks his shirt and wanders over to the sinks. "Black pants. No big deal, no one will notice." 

There is a comfortable moment of silence. And then Dom gives each of his cuffs a twist, dries his hands, and turns toward Sean. His smile prompts Sean's, and they both seem to be enduring brief nervousness. 

"Missed you, man," Dom drawls, working tongue against teeth and cheek, a motion that Sean can't help but follow with his eyes. All at once Dom clamps him in a manly embrace and kisses his cheek. "It's not nearly noisy enough without you." 

Grinning, Sean claps Dom's back. His cheek burns with the short contact. "Damned straight."   


*

  


Sean can't draw for shit. He doesn't usually doodle out of boredom, either--there's always phone calls to make or a book to read or a camera angle to spin inside the confines of his skull. So he surprises himself with the sudden urge to reply to Dom's drawings with drawings of his own. He can't say anything in reply and, yet, feels full of _something_ that needs to be expressed. He sits with a napkin and a crayon from Ali's arts and crafts tin and spends the last twenty minutes before he's called to set thinking about what to put down. 

He can't pull off sketchy, beautiful bits of human form--thinking of form sends a thrill of ice down his belly, makes him think of calories and diets and imperfection--and he's not very good with still-life. Waxy tip to the surface, he just lets the color streak and swirl. It's a mushy wash of ugly red. An assistant pops just inside the trailer and beckons him to work. He leaves the napkin under a magazine that rests in front of Dom's chair.   


*

  


"It's sorted, now," Dom says, and the comment seems very casual to Sean. 

"What was up?" 

He gestures vaguely. "Allergies fuckin' me sideways, you know? I'm taking these pills now." 

"That's good," Sean replies. There is an awkward silence during which both men realize they're discussing health, which they have never bothered to bring up until now. 

Dom raises his beer. "To minding what ails you." 

Their bottles clink. Sean's eyebrows sit high on his forehead.   


*

  


The half-hour between feet application and on-set call will go down in history as When the Crazy Things Happen. They're either giddy with tiredness or hyped up on overly sweet coffee or tea, ready for work but still pining for bed--or both. On this particular morning Dom is sitting in Billy's lap. They're deep into a long rambling banter. Sean watches them. Behind him, Elijah is bobbing his head in time with the music blaring through the trailer. 

"And I said, so I said, I said, 'Woe. Woe unto you, sushi giver.' And he looked at me funny. Thought I was--oh, Billy. You understand, don't you?" 

"Of course," Billy says, plucking imaginary lint from Dom's shoulder. "Ah, Dominic of the Many Ugly Shirts." 

And on and on until Sean's cheeks are warm with contained laughter. He'll admit, also, to a bit of jealousy. Dom and Billy's nonsense doesn’t seem so nonsensical for them--he envies that exchange. He and Elijah's friendship is much different, rooted in a silent connection. 

Exhausting their chatter for the moment, Dom slips from Billy's chair to Sean's, disturbing styrofoam cup and book as he wriggles onto Sean's thighs. 

"Good morning," Sean says, forcing his limbs to relax enough to get an arm loosely around Dom's waist. "You had two cups this morning, didn't you?" 

"You're mocking me, aren't you?" Dom turns. "Billy, Sean's mocking me. Elijah--oh, forget you. You're of no help to anyone at any point in time. Fucking baby." 

"Yep," Sean says. "Two cups. Can't hold your damned caffeine." 

"I knew it." Dom drops his head to Sean's shoulder. "Eleven years of spousal devotion and this is what I get. Curse your black heart, Sean Astin. _What about the children_?" 

Sean laughs, snorts, and swats Dom with his paperback.   


*

  


Excitement of the physically stimulating variety, for Sean, is centered between his ears. It's easy to identify, being in such an obvious location--the hum and tingle it causes can be nothing else. It is prelude to all stimulation that could follow. 

They're driving back from an errand. Sean had offered to pick up some camera equipment for Peter and Dom and Billy had volunteered to tag along. After dropping off Billy and the cargo, Sean and Dom switch places in the car--Dom takes the passenger seat. 

Sean has decided to mention their drawing exchange. He bases that decision on the fact there haven't been any since he last replied with one of his own and he's confused. The dark car seems a safe place to engage in uncomfortable conversation. He feels a gentle vibration in his head. He opens his mouth, fills his chest--and listens to Dom snore all the way home. 

Sean parks the car and wakes him, lending a shoulder as they hobble along sleepily inside. He half-trips over the rug in the entranceway and Sean instinctively gets him vertical again. Eyelids lazily sinking, he bumps forward into Sean. They stand there for one heartbeat too many. 

Cat-like, Dom's arms uncurl and then re-curl around Sean's neck. He nudges his nose into the crook of Sean's neck and squeezes until they're embracing rather intimately. 

"You're exhausted," Sean mumbles into the safe dark, raising one arm to pat Dom's back. 

"Mmprfh," Dom says, forcing himself to stand straight. "Thanks." 

"Any time. Get into bed," Sean replies. 

Dom squints, one eye and then the other, and darts forward, pecking Sean's mouth with his. It's over before it starts and Sean is frozen in place, physically horrified. 

"I meant it," Dom says, before stumbling down the hall. 

Sean's bones are liquid inside their squishy casing.   


*

  


He finds the wedge of blank paper under his plate at lunch. Can't be a coincidence. It's similar in shape and size to all the other ones and too carefully arranged to be anything else. But fucking blank. The hell? Feeling a rush of discomfort, Sean puts it away. 

It's only later that evening, half-asleep before he even hits the sheets, that he fishes it out of a pocket. Not thinking, he scribbles a question mark on the back of it, and sets it aside. He'll put it where Dom will find it.   


*

  


He equates a week of silence with rejection. What kind of rejection? He isn't sure. The silence stings and, finally, lodges itself inside his uncomfortably soft gut. Being with Dom every day doesn't help, but he develops a tolerance like any normal human being would. He supposes he had crossed a line with the last note but can't come up with anything that would have suited his feelings more than that red question mark. Then again, what does that have to do with anything? Has he actually dreamt up rules to this supposed game? _Fucking figures_ , he thinks, and shoves a bookmark between the pages of his novel. 

That following Sunday, Sean is set to take Ali to a local park with a packed lunch and a digital camera, intent upon giving Christine some quiet time. Somehow, between getting dressed and finding his car keys, Dom has worked his magic on Ali and managed to get an invitation. He follows up with the typical--where's Elijah, where's Billy, where's Orli, why don't you, and so on and so on, until he's sure Dom thinks he's just trying to get rid of him. 

The temperate weather calms Sean, though, leaving him vulnerable and pliant. 

"It's cool, if you didn't, you know, pack for more than two," Dom says. 

"Oh, no, there's enough. There's always enough, really." 

"Are you sure?" Ali is tugging at Dom's hand and sucking her bottom lip in silent plea. 

"Of course you can come, Dom," Sean says, deflating. 

Later, strolling along behind Ali as she chases her soccer ball, Sean and Dom are mostly silent. They get this way around one another. Sean, for some reason, not wanting to jabber the way he usually does and say something boring or stupid; Dom, not wanting to be loud and crass around Ali and, deep down, wanting to seem older in front of Sean, waters down his typically sharp humor and just listens. It does them both a hell of a lot of good, all things considered. 

Ali gets ahead of them, all tiny blue jeans and bobbing ponytail, and they pause. 

"I didn't know what to say," Dom says. 

Sean looks at him, momentarily lost. They had been talking about charity work. "What?" 

"It was fine, until you asked. And then, I didn't know what to say. I suppose I set myself up for that one, though, didn't I?" 

"Oh," Sean says. 

Dom meets his eyes for just a second before going back to watching Ali. "Forget it?" 

"What, the whole thing?" 

"I guess." 

"I don't want to." 

"Whatever it is--" 

"Fucking hell, Dom." 

" _Whatever_ the bloody hell it _is_ \--" 

"No, shut it," Sean says, stepping in Dom's shadow and nudging his shoulder. "Hang on. Would you just hang on? Look, whatever you meant by it, it. I looked forward to it. It was nice. So don't treat it like we--" 

"Like we what? Like we had actually...instead of just doodling...like we'd--" 

Sean's face flushes. Dom's eyes trace the color. 

Ali comes racing back toward them, cupping a giant weta in her small hands. "Uncle Dom, lookit!"   


*

  


How does Sean Astin, Master of All Things Responsible, handle his own irresponsibility? What goes through his head when things draw his eye that shouldn't? What colors are the stripes of his indecision? Not much and dark are the answers, and he's sorry if that seems disappointing. The bottom line is that he has no fewer imperfections than Joe Blow standing next to him. 

And life is different. Life is not California and life is not struggling and life is not simple. Life is New Zealand weather and glue around his ankles and more cameras than he's ever dreamed of touching. Life is men that he wishes he could've met ten years ago, men that touch and love as openly as he has always wanted to touch and love but has never been allowed to. Life is sitting on Orlando's lap and cheeks covered in Elijah's playful kisses and Dom's nude drawings. Life is feeling that all these things are exactly what Sean has been missing. 

Dom represents them all, somehow. Dom, fragrant as skin-warmed leather, wild as early-morning blizzards that cover the ground and delay filming, sharp as a motherfucking tack. 

Dom, paying for Sean's beer. Dom, driving home, poignantly sober. Dom, cut sharp and half shadow in the doorway, fingers curled around the wooden frame, one part hot breath against Sean's cheek and two parts flesh there for the touching. 

"May I steal some of your tea?" Sean asks, and means, _let me stay_. 

"Sure," Dom replies, and they go inside and settle at the kitchen table. Dom sets a mug in front of Sean and goes in search of another. 

Under the teabag in Sean's mug is his question. Under it is 'yes', scrawled in blue. 

Sean watches Dom sift through a cupboard, swallows the knot of embarrassment and arousal that drips like chilly water down his front, and then decides to close the distance between them. He does the first thing that comes to mind--cups either side of Dom's hips as easily as he would in front of a crowd. Dom tenses and a glass tips over. Sean sets it right and then puts his hand over the back of Dom's to soak up the irresistible warmth there. 

His cheek finds the curve of Dom's neck, brushes, settles, and turns, lips to skin just under the ear there. Dom's free hand splays across the counter. Tension goes liquid and then washes his muscles lax, bringing his body back into Sean's. 

Don't think don't think and he doesn't and he doesn't even have to because, contrary to all his anticipation, it's not much different, it's just hard and flat and immediate, more immediate than anything, just as there as he needs it to be, digging points of heat into his skin. Hands in Dom's pockets and hard heat between and grinding into the unyielding wooden counter. They're both gone; all is blood red. 

Awake in bed the next morning, Dom snoring beside him, Sean sees colors.


End file.
